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I have been driving the OH quite mad of late. (Possibly for much longer than that!)

I have put on quite a bit of weight… well, in my opinion, quite a lot!

I had some very serious depression and anxiety issues this year, along with some health concerns I have blogged about previously, all of which resulted in a little bit too much comfort eating and drinking. And an expanding waistline…

I have been moaning about how fat I am, how awful I look and feel and it is really getting on his nerves. He is worn out telling me to stop saying these things, telling me I am ‘gorgeous’ and ‘beautiful’; alternating between almost endless patience and occasional, (and understandable), irritation at my self-hating repetition.

I asked him had he not noticed my new shape and he agreed he had and that it really doesn’t matter: “When you were slimmer I found you sexy, when you were or are bigger I find you sexy. You have a real problem seeing yourself the way you really are.”

I thought about this over, and over.

For me, this is impossible to accept. It is no failing on his part, it is all on me. I simply cannot see what he says he sees. I simply cannot accept that he finds me attractive or desirable. I think I am repulsive.

Eventually, I asked him, “So, what you are saying is – you love and accept me just as I am, no matter how I look or how much I change. Is that it?”

A wry grin spread over his lips, “Isn’t it though, I’ve been practicing it.”

His fingers reached out and touched hers hugging her coffee cup. She pulled away slightly and sighed.

“Jaq,” he searched for the words, cursing his inability to express himself, “I’m as new to this as you are.”

She looked up at him, tears threatening to spill from her eyes, and looked away, out the window at the blackbird, which had set up residence in the garden.

They had known each other forever, or at least that’s how it felt. Colleagues for years, they had hit it off from day one. Their naturally flirtatious personalities just clicked. Their work styles complimented each other too; him – calm, patient, taking his time to get things just so, her – fast, creative, eager to get things done. They balanced each other out and made a good team. He was her safety net, she was his caffeine shot. It worked.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered, “This is a mess.”

“You think falling for you was in my plan?” he replied, not angry, but frustrated. Frustrated at the situation they found themselves in. Frustrated she couldn’t accept what he was offering her. Frustrated at her lack of self confidence.

A tear trickled down her cheek and she impatiently wiped it away with her sleeve, rolling her eyes at her own lack of control.

“Hey now,” his hand cupped her chin, gently forcing her to look at him, “We can work this out. I don’t know how yet, but we can.”

He rubbed his stubble, “Look, I don’t ever want to force you into anything. I’ll go at your pace. Even if nothing ever happens, I’m here,” he said, knowing in his heart that he meant it but that he wanted her in every way possible.

He wanted her mind; he loved how it worked, so sharp and quirky and so different to his. He wanted her body, god how he wanted her body; her curves, her softness. He wanted to kiss her until she begged for breath, taste her skin, inhale the scent of her hair. He wanted to see her naked and take pleasure in her. He wanted to feel her move beneath him as he fucked her. He wanted to hear her moan his name. He wanted to drive her to the edge of orgasm over and over until she wept, pleading for release and then start all over again. He could never tire of her, that much he knew.

But she was still unsure. Where she saw only her flaws, he saw beauty, fragility, vulnerability. She couldn’t believe what he said he saw in her. He feared she never would. He struggled to imagine how he could change her view of herself. How could he make her trust that it was her he wanted, just as she was, right there in front of him – hair unbrushed, mascara blurred, lips chapped from her habit of chewing on them.

“Give me time?” she asked, another tear ran down her face. His fingers wiped it away and stroked her wet cheek.

“I’ve none. That’s the problem. Well, I’ve some laundry and ironing to do but that’s it.”

“Any writing?”

“Nothing to write about.”

“What about some photography? You haven’t done any in a while, have you?”

“Nothing to photograph.”

“Well, there’s your task today then.”

I sigh.

“You’ve got to help yourself love.”

This was our conversation as he dressed after his shower this morning.

*

You may, (or more likely, may not), have noticed that I’ve been very quiet for a while now. My last entry to this blog was July 18th, and even that was just to link to elust.

I have felt completely devoid of inspiration. I have nothing to say that I think is worth sharing.

I feel aimless; I have no routine, no goals, no purpose.

I drift.

Breakfast, lunch and dinner are the only markers of my day. Sometimes I feel like I am existing merely to get to the next mealtime.

Many days I don’t bother to get dressed.

I can’t remember the last time I was outside alone.

“I’m sorry I look so shitty,” I say several times a day. He replies, telling me to shush and that I am beautiful.

I am clueless as to how to fix this…

Do I need a routine? Do I need him to tell me what it is? The ‘little’ in me strives to be obedient and pleasing, but I know I will probably rebel against any instructions that he gives me, because I feel too tired, too apathetic to carry them out.

Perhaps I feel unworthy of feeling any better?

I am five weeks into my new medication… the so-called miracle pill that is Prozac. Is it working? Maybe, to some extent. But not enough. Not consistently. I have fleeting moments of confidence and contentment, where I do not despise myself, but they do no last.

I sit here, 9.50am, yet another day where I am not showered or dressed yet, and with no plans for the day ahead of me, with only a detached sense of resignation that nothing will change. Numb.

Is this it? Is this how it shall be? Forever?

Why am I even sharing these meandering thoughts? Why bore and burden you with my non-issues?

With a deep sigh, (apparently I sigh A LOT), I end this decidedly mediocre, self-pitying post.

I hope illicithoughts will return to being a place where I can express myself again, hopefully entertain you, make you think, make you angry, make you sad, make you laugh.

I have participated in Sinful Sunday since March 1st 2015, and have enjoyed the challenge of coming up with a new image every week. I love the positivity of this meme and the amazing support to be found amongst the community here. I salute Molly for creating this safe space to explore and celebrate our sexual sides.

However, I am in a place right now where I simply cannot join in anymore. I have nothing positive to say about my body and I need to turn my focus elsewhere. Looking in the mirror is too hard and taking photographs is too much of a stretch for me.

I will continue to look at everyones images each Sunday, and will comment on them.

Maybe I will return, I cannot say right now.

Thank you all for the lovely comments and support you have so generously provided me with over the past 15 months.

As a kid, I always sat at the front of class. This was not because I was a swot or a teacher’s pet, (far from it!). I sat there because I couldn’t see the board from any further back.

I remember my first eye test and my mother standing over a very miserable-faced me, as I was forced to choose frames. I was very unhappy at having to become bespectacled. I felt ugly.

I was so unhappy I refused to wear them. I continued my squinting and was often told as a teenager that I was ‘snobby’ or ‘moody’, because I didn’t say hi to people on the street. Anyone who interacts with me here or on Twitter will know how far this is from the truth! I love to chat and am basically a big, slobbery, overly friendly puppy! The reason I didn’t greet people was that I simply didn’t SEE them!

Fast forward to college, and I was still keeping my status as a speccy-four-eyes a secret, until one day a boyfriend and his mate persuaded me to show them.

⬅️ I had quite large, “Wonder Woman before she spun around” glasses at the time and hated them.

When I put them on and saw the two guys’ jaws drop, and heard my BF breathe, “Jesus, you look just like Wonder Woman!” I laughed out loud.

However, I still refused to wear my glasses, not believing guys could ever find me attractive wearing them.

I tried various types of contact lenses, but always found them massively uncomfortable. So, I continued to squint.

But…

These days I wear my glasses almost all the time. What has changed? Well, for one thing I just got really fed up of not being able to see! I am sure I have more wrinkles around my eyes than I should have, and this is probably caused by all that squinting.

But now, I actually think I look ok wearing my glasses. I have discovered over on Twitter that a large proportion of guys really, and I mean really, like girls in glasses. When I told the OH my plans for this post earlier, he rolled his eyes, saying, “I’ve told you forever that you are beautiful in your glasses!” to which I replied, “Yeah, but I needed a bunch of random strangers on the internet to convince me…!” We had a good laugh about that.

I wonder why guys dig chicks in frames so much?

Does it hark back to the old Wonder Woman fantasy? Is it a “sexy secretary” thing? Or perhaps they see a bookish nerd, who secretly is a filthy, kinky little minx?

Whatever, I am just glad to know that I am not less attractive because I am myopic.

I do realise that I spend a fair bit of time complaining about how I look.

Something struck me today as I was out on my enforced trip to town.

I saw other women of all shapes and sizes, smaller and thinner than me and larger and heavier than me.

I saw several larger ladies and thought, “wow! She looks amazing/her curves are fab/she looks so confident”, and then thought, “why can’t I be happy with my body like they are?”

Yes, yes, I know there is every chance they go home and cry when they look in the mirror, just as I do, but the point is that I thought they looked fantastic and confident in themselves.

I also realised that I have several friends on twitter and WP that are also larger than me, who I think are totally gorgeous. I can think of so many women who post nude or semi nude photos that I admire on Sinful Sunday or on their TLs and I thought, “Fuck! They must read me and think that I am a total bitch!”

So I must make one thing clear… when I rant about not being the size or shape I want to be, I am in no way suggesting that being larger, heavier, (or thinner for that matter), is not desirable or is in any way “less than”. When I write these things it really is all about me!

My bestie lost it with me last week when I made a disparaging remark about how I look, (I said I wasn’t going to an event I had wanted to attend because I am too fat now).

She is gorgeous, sexy and beautiful and yes, she is bigger than me. She totally hit me with both barrels about how pointless it is for me to constantly run my self down and to deny myself things because of how I perceive myself to look. Her anger and disappointment leaped off the screen and I withdrew for the day, unable to face her. (We are perfectly ok now btw… she was really just trying to make me see things differently but I couldn’t hear it.)

When I think that any of my friends on twitter or in the blogosphere might feel the same disappointment and annoyance at me for what I write, or that they might think I am in some way running them down alongside running myself down, it makes me feel dreadful! Truly shitty.

I felt the need to write this today to say that the stupid standards I set for myself are not in any way a reflection of how I see other women.

I realise 100% how incredibly fucked up my attitude is and how warped my thinking is. I envy any woman who feels comfortable in her own skin. If there were a pill I could take to achieve the same feeling, I would take it in a heartbeat. Hell, I’d overdose!

The truth is I havenever been happy with how I look. When I was wearing age 10-11 jeans, (yes age, not size), and was so underweight my periods stopped I still thought I looked awful and even ‘saw’ a belly where there was actually a concave dip.

For the record, I have a problem with me, not with anyone else. If anyone reading my rants about my body shape and size ever thinks I am attacking or insulting anyone other than myself, please know that I am not.